


Control

by MeriBotti



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull has character depth, Bull's ptsd, Lavellan and Bull are both control freaks, M/M, Mental Health Issues, and I'm tooting my own horn, let's see we got, like just assume I'll name drop everyone eventually, mentions of trauma, this is gonna be very Iron Bull centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeriBotti/pseuds/MeriBotti
Summary: Iron Bull likes to think he has a handle on his personal issues by now. He doesn't think surveying the Inquisition is gonna be that much of a difficult job. Weird, sure. But not difficult.Boy was he wrong.Or:Iron Bull and Lavellan bond over mutual coping mechanisms and kinky sex. There's politics, and hopefully a plot I won't give up on. Wish me luck!





	Control

Iron Bull has issues with control. Like most people who come out of Seheron, he too had gotten the extra baggage; some scars, a few less fingers, a leg that will never be completely healed, and a lot of nightmare fuel and paranoia. He’s had enough time to develop all of his coping mechanisms, and generally he’s able to function. He’ll always get tense in foggy weather, he’ll always associate loud noises with explosions, he’ll always avoid enclosed spaces when he can, but he’ll function. Because he has a routine. Because he’s learned everything he can do to minimize the damage when he does lose it. He knows how to respond to fear, panic and anxiety. He likes being able to control himself, and that in itself is the problem isn't it.

 

When Bull looks at Lavellan he sees a similar obsession with control. Lavellan always presents everyone a person covered in ten layers of manners, facades and misdirection. He never shows more skin than a little of his arms, and that alone is a clue of the extent of the man’s control issues. Bull has never seen him drink alcohol, or so much as blink an eye flirtatiously. He has a mean poker face, to the point that Bull’s often heard people wondering if the Inquisitor’s face is paralyzed. Every step the man takes when there’s people around seems deliberate and calculated. And even on their various excursions Lavellan tends to hide behind professionalism. He’ll deliver sarcastic commentary and practise wry humour, but it’s all very impersonal. Lavellan is, in a word, alarmingly Orlesian.

 

Something must have made him this way, is what Bull thinks. Lavellan’s aptitude for dealing with nobles isn’t something a person learns in a forest and neither is the habit of deflecting with false courtesy. And this is where Lelianna’s information gathered on the Inquisitor comes in. As far as Bull knows, only she and him (and perhaps Cole) are aware of the fact that Lavellan grew up in Orlais. Presumably he was a child of a servant who lived in Val Charron, in the estate of a new-money lordling by the name of Chastain. There are reliable records of him at least up to the age of six, which is surprising for an elf. But then, most of it seems to be for taxing purposes for the estate. Some time after that, though it’s unclear how, the he ended up with clan Lavellan. Bull hasn’t felt guilty about snooping around in a long while, but he respects Lavellan’s privacy by not mentioning he knows this. However, he can take a guess as to where Lavellan’s obsessive behaviour started.

 

And really, Lavellan seems to be doing quite well. Almost died at Haven but other than that.

 

 

Of course Halamshiral is where it goes to shit.

 

* * *

 

 

They have about a month to get the Inquisition on its feet and into the Empress's ball. From the looks of it the fort is a crumbling disaster, and between finding out what the fuck Corypheus is, taking care of the forces and the refugees, and convincing Orlais that the Inquisition is a legitimate organization that should be invited to the court, there’s really no pressure.

 

Bull sends a report to the Ben-Hassrath when they first get to Skyhold, and another only a week after because that’s how quickly they’re making progress. He doesn’t get an answer, and often he doesn’t, but it’s weird because there’s this darkspawn who talks and claims to be a magister from ancient Tevinter, and they should probably do something about that. He tries not to think about it too much and instead focuses on the Inquisition.

 

Previously Lavellan hadn’t taken Bull along on his team often. He’d left him to manage the Chargers most of the time, and only really took him along if they were expecting a heavy fight. When they started tracking down Venatori and snuffing out their resources all over Thedas, suddenly watching the Inquisitor’s back became a full time job, and Bull had to leave managing the Chargers to Krem more and more often.

 

Their first big trip is to the desert, to the Hidden Oasis. It’s a little surprising, because this particular mission isn’t high in publicity, which seems to be what they should focus on right now. Considering how much convincing Orlais still needs. But suppose Bull can appreciate Lavellan trying to make sure the Venatori don’t get their hands on weird magical artifacts.

 

The sand gets everywhere and the hot air is dry, unlike back home where the heat is accompanied by a tropical humidness. Something Bull hasn’t felt in years, and it’s one of the things he never seems to stop missing no matter how long he’s away. But the place isn’t too bad. They strike gold and find the waterfall the oasis is no doubt named after. Bathing under it is an improvement from trying wash out sand and sweat with water rations that always seem too small.

 

Lavellan offers to conjure up small pieces of ice for them so they don’t overheat, like he’s already done for himself, but only Blackwall takes him up on the offer. Bull jealously watches Lavellan slide ice over his neck, leaving the vertebras visibly moving under his skin glistening. Bull can’t stop staring. He wants to feel the bones and the skin stretched over them under his fingers.

 

Afterwards Bull feels a little stupid for being averse to the offer. It’s just ice. Ice made with magic, but it’s not the ice’s fault it’s weird.

 

They return to Skyhold empty-handed, but assured in the knowledge that the Venatori aren’t off any better.

 

They get a four day long break, during which Bull catches sight of Lavellan maybe two or three times, and then they’re trekking off to the Emerald Graves. They’re after two things; red lyrium smugglers and a group of Orlesian refugees. More accurately, the publicity that helping the refugees will garner, and the intel their leader Fairbanks claims to have.

 

The trees are gigantic, and the forest is filled with old statues, both andrastian and elven. Bull spies Solas cringing every time they come across an Andraste or a Maferath. It would be funnier if the statues weren’t signs of a genocide of a people. He wonders how many of the trees around them are really graves.

 

Sera for her part keeps complaining about how nature is trying to murder her, as she keeps stumbling on tree roots. Bull thinks her problem has more to do with her untied shoelaces.

 

Solas has given up on trying to teach Sera about elves, but Sera hasn’t given up on bullying Solas. Lavellan must have brought the two together on purpose. Does he enjoy torturing people? Why is Bull even asking, of course he does. He sees the way the corners of Lavellan’s mouth twitch every time Sera gets bored and bothers Solas. The elf can pretend prim and proper all he likes, Bull is onto him. It’s a shockingly correct assumption.

 

“Ten royals on Solas losing his shit by the end of the day.”

 

Lavellan falls back to walk beside him, and Bull can feel his neck crack from how quickly he turns to look at the elf. He doesn’t show his surprise at the man’s unusual behaviour. Instead he plays along. “That’s a lot of gold for a losing battle. Solas doesn’t have it in him to let go.”

 

Lavellan’s mouth twitches again, and it’s probably the closest thing to a devious grin he’s likely to see on the man. Lavellan speaks in a low tone as to not draw their companions’ attention. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve worked hard to get him as irritated as he is.”

 

Something akin to a grimace briefly crosses Lavellan’s face before he adds, “And I suppose I’m the richest elf in Thedas right now, aren’t I? Ten gold is hardly a loss anymore. Humour me.”

 

Bull doesn’t know what makes him say it, he knows Lavellan doesn’t drink, but he blurts it out before he thinks it through. “Say what, I win and you come have a drink with me when we’re done. Get off that throne of yours for a little while.”

 

He immediately feels like he’s being manipulative, coaxing Lavellan into a position he knows he’s not used to. That is exactly what he's doing. It's just off-putting because technically Bull's intentions are friendly. But at this point it's instinctual for him to try to double what should be a simple social interaction with his job as a spy. He'd never get anything done otherwise, if he were constantly tiptoeing around his Thedosian associates, feeling guilty about why he's ultimately with them. But Lavellan doesn’t seem bothered by the request. He just looks at Bull mildly amused. “Alright.

 

Guess this is how Lavellan gets when he’s bored, huh?

 

Eventually they get to the refugee camp and Lavellan’s demeanor stiffens, and it’s back to business again.

 

In the end Solas does end up angrily non-shouting at a snickering Sera later that day, when they're back over at their own camp. His ears get all red and it’s like he’s trying to scream at her, but because he’s still trying to be all composed it comes out as frustrated puffs. Bull imagines smoke coming out of his ears. They cause a scene, which Solas eventually storms away from, and Bull has to admire Sera's tenacity.

 

Honestly, he feels a little disappointed when he drops a purse into Lavellan’s outstretched hand. He notes the way the claws their races share have been filed to resemble the shape of nails, unlike his own, before retiring for the night.

 

* * *

 

They cut it pretty close with their return to Skyhold. They’re immediately herded into a fitting for the uniforms Josephine has had tailored for them.

 

Bull knows that logically, having him and Dorian actively accompany Lavellan to the ball is strategically genius. Lavellan wants to show off the qunari and the mage from Tevinter. It’s a prompt ‘fuck you’ to the Chantry, and a good intimidation tactic, _if_ Lavellan can spin it his way in the court. Bull sees the logic, but there’s still a tiny part of him that’s already tired at the thought of a whole evening of listening to racist shit and watching the utter idiocy of the nobility.

 

He complies to Josephine and the tailor, and gets away from them as soon as he can. There’s still two nights before they leave to Halamshiral, and he intends enjoy the freedom.

 

It’s late into the evening and the Herald’s Rest has reached its daily peak amount of happy drunk noise. Bull is sitting in the same spot as always, where he can see every corner of the first floor, holding a ridiculously large tankard even by his standards and listening with one ear to Krem and Skinner happily discuss the benefits and cons of warhammers. He sees a pale figure enter the tavern, Lavellan.

 

Clad in white as always he tends to stand out, and he draws plenty of curious looks as he walks stiffly towards Bull’s part of the place. Bull can’t help but smile at how out of place the man looks here. Put him in a room full of nobility and he fits right in with his embroidered shirts and faked formality, but in a tavern full of tired workers and soldiers he’s just awkward.

 

To Lavellan’s credit he doesn’t blink an eye when the room silences as people wonder if the Inquisitor really just stepped into the tavern. Granted they lose interest quickly, and the noise picks up before Lavellan even reaches him, and is left standing hesitantly in front of him at an arm’s distance.

 

“What’s up boss?” He tries to exhume a friendly aura and smiles lazily. Lavellan is looking at his forehead instead of his eyes. It’s a neat trick for avoiding eye contact, and now that he’s noticed Bull starts to wonder how often the man actually has to use it. Lavellan rarely _seems_ nervous, but Bull assumes he knows how to hide it.

 

“I thought our bet was pretty unfair, since I had spent all day throwing Sera at Solas, so I guess I owe you that drink anyway.”

 

Bull doesn’t bother teasing the man over what they both know to be an excuse. Instead he gestures toward an empty chair and says, “Sure thing. Might as well introduce you to the Chargers. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

 

Lavellan gracefully shoves himself between Bull and Skinner. Thankfully she doesn’t growl. Bull pats Krem on the shoulder with too much force and goes “Here’s Krem de la Crème, you’ve met.” And Lavellan let’s out a real smile for once, “We have.”

 

Krem pretends to be offended and Bull continues, “We’ve got Rocky and Skinner there, and over there is Stitches, Dalish, and Grim.” Bull chuckles, voice full of rare affection. “Crazy bunch of assholes, but they’re mine.” There’s a varying amount of sheepish smiles and proud grins at that. Krem proceeds to complain about Bull’s bad nicknames and Bull proceeds to flippantly explain the nicknaming culture among the Qun, mostly for Lavellan’s benefit. He can tell it interests him, and Bull hopes that he hasn’t inadvertently created a monster. A new jug of beer and an additional tankard appears on their table as Lavellan gets introduced to each one of the Chargers. Lavellan accepts the cup he’s offered while Dalish spews bullshit about not being a mage. “She knows I’m a mage too, right?” Lavellan asks Bull silently, not really serious. “Don’t mind her. She pulls that with everyone,” Bull reassures.

 

After the initial awkwardness the evening goes on just as it had before. Lavellan mostly listens to the others, seemingly enjoying just watching the group dynamics unfold in front of him. He never gets a refill, but by the time the last of the patrons are leaving for the night his cheeks are flushed. Go figure he’s a lightweight. It’s nice to see he isn’t perfect.

 

Lavellan and Bull go outside in companionable silence when the bar is closed and the night is officially over. Bull’s room is on the top floor of the tavern, but he’s politely walking the Inquisitor to his own room, even though Lavellan doesn’t really need an escort.

 

The cool night air is refreshing. It still weirds him out how the air never gets freezing like it should so high up in the mountains. Damn magic fortress. Though really he prefers the magic air to freezing.

 

Bull briefly wonders about Lavellan’s sudden friendliness, and decides that the best way to deal with him is to be straightforward.

 

“So,” he starts. “Got tired of keeping everyone away with a foot long sharp stick, huh?”

 

Lavellan has a look of unusually open surprise on his face. He takes his time answering Bull. He actually scrunches his brows a little. Alcohol makes him more animated, apparently.

“I’m not looking for a friend,” is what Bull gets.

 

“Didn’t expect you were,” he complies. “Don’t need to be friends to enjoy downtime with someone. With the way you’ve been going I think you could use some downtime on occasion.”

 

For a moment Lavellan stays silent, again thinking through what he wants to say before speaking. “I don’t… I’m. I know I seem, stiff.”

 

“That’s one word for it,” Bull can’t help but interject. He gets a glare, but not the usual murderous kind. Lavellan isn’t as intimidating, looking up at him with a red face and furrowed brows.

 

“I do need some time to be- not that,” Lavellan admits. “The Inquisitor is supposed to be a role. It’s not supposed to feel like- like I’m becoming it. I’m supposed to be good at this.” ‘This’ referring to the way Lavellan compartmentalizes himself from who he is in his new ‘job’. It’s a heavy confession to make, and Bull doesn’t know what to think of Lavellan making it to him.

 

“I don’t want friendship, with you or anyone. Frankly, I don’t  trust you very much.” No surprise there. “But you understand how tiring it is, don’t you? So can we just…”

 

He does understand. He understands the exhaustion from constantly having to think through your every action to make sure it fits the role, and he understands the exhaustion from being in an environment that isn’t safe. Constantly surrounded by people you can’t trust. So Bull tells him.

 

“Yeah, I get it. You want the stress relief without the strings. I’m not gonna judge you. This situation’s shit, and I get you’re here even though you don’t want to be. For what it’s worth you’re welcome to take a break and stow away in my corner of the tavern when you need to. You’re so small no one will look twice if you hide behind me,” he jokes, aware that it’s a way to deflect the importance of what he’s saying.

 

Bull doesn’t miss the exasperated huff, or the silent ‘thanks’.

 

He doesn’t see Lavellan again until the day they leave to the Winter Palace.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Just wanted to say that I'm still new to editing my work. I'm open to input if you feel like sharing, otherwise thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, I'm probably gonna be slow updating this, I don't dare to give you a schedule, but I am working on this. I'm just going to be slow because I'm not used to writing like this.


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